


No Lock Will Hold

by plastics



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Choking, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Possession, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: “Remind me why we’re sleeping here again?” Shane said as he dug a sweater out of his bag, wondering when his blood got so thin that a mild breeze bothered him.“I don’t fucking know,” Ryan said from his place on the floor. “To prove we’re tougher than the ‘Worth It’ boys? Integrity of the hunt? Because I hate myself?”





	No Lock Will Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed warning in end notes, keep it secret, keep it safe, etc.

The desert is always so cold at night.

Shane knew this — it wasn’t the crew’s first jaunt east — but it was still an unwelcome shock as the sun dipped beneath the blanched horizon and took every hint of warmth with it.

“Remind me why we’re sleeping here again?” Shane said as he dug a sweater out of his bag, wondering when his blood got so thin that a mild breeze bothered him.

“I don’t fucking know,” Ryan said from his place on the floor. He was helping Mark set up their overnight tech, chords and batteries and tripods carefully balanced together. “To prove we’re tougher than the ‘Worth It’ boys? Integrity of the hunt? Because I hate myself?”

Shane pauses for a moment, arm half-navigated through the sleeve. “Oddly introspective,” he responded lightly, but he wasn’t surprised by the back of response. He didn’t say anything about the whole side mission being Ryan’s idea, either, because he’d never been one to seek out non-fun confrontation and there was something a little extra tetchy beneath the hunted look Ryan had on his face. Not that that _wasn’t_ what Ryan usually looks like on-site, but—

They’d just started on the road again after a lot of in-office episodes for the recent true crime season. The place wasn’t exactly their most well-known location; Ryan couldn’t even remember where he’d heard of it and ended up having to do most of the primary research himself, instead combing through the work of all the internet sleuths who came before him. QC was worried about getting any real content, marketing was worried about SEO for an unknown location, production was worried about permits, legal was worried about defamation—

But Ryan had wanted to. It’s a phrase with just an ever-increasing amount of influence in Shane’s life.

So they’d made for an extended trip, ate some tacos, drank some beers, and built up enough good cheer to notice when it drained from Ryan’s face as they approached an old, squat adobe house.

“You good?” Shane asked. “That al pastor not settling in well?”

Ryan responded, “Fuck, no. I don’t know.” His eyes are wide, fixed forward. “It just… feels bad. I don’t like the feel of this place.”

“You rarely do,” Shane reminded him. “Have you considered that you’re afraid of anywhere with an insufficient population density?”

“Shut the fuck up, Shane.”

So it went for most of the shoot. They set up to film their intro commentary outside; the location is miles from the mesas and other various rock formations that make people call New Mexico beautiful—truly, Shane cannot believe how _flat_ everything is, even the browned low-growing shrubs seem reluctant to stick their necks out—but the lighting indoors was nightmarish. No matter what they did, him and Ryan looked like they were either cast in shadow or burning through the screen in test shots.

Shane settled in as Ryan presented his evidence base. He didn’t bother doing his full VO-worthy voice, but he still painted the picture well enough.

The house, like every inch of American soil and in particular the locations they frequent, had a dark history dating back several hundred years. A more recent but still long-gone serial killer had made this place his home—literally, apparently, as he constructed the place with his own hands. There were rumors that the house sat atop a graveyard, or possibly had remains built into its very walls, because of course there were.

It was harder to laugh off the guy himself, who seemed like a real creep. A lot of dismemberment. Uncivil liberties. General terrorizing.

Ryan described it all without breath, eyes heavy and fixed on his phone. “He would kidnap people—it doesn’t look like he was picky, as long as he could get them alone—and he’d keep them for as long as he could, however he wanted, servile or spent, and if they fought back, he’d cut them, or starve them, or—”

“Woah, okay,” Shane interrupted. His stomach felt heavy and twisted. It’s easier when supernatural just means ghosts and goatmen and nothing real, even though it’s all long gone. “Seems like… quite the guy.”

Ryan barely grunted in response, which wasn’t exactly how to get through these shots with waning light. But he looked shaken, eyes wide before the sun even set, hands shaking, and Devon’s voice was almost too light when she asked, “Hey, Ryan, can you remind me where you’re pulling this from?”

“What?” Ryan said, before shaking his head and flipping through his phone documents. “Shit, I don’t know, I must have read it somewhere and forgot to put it in the folder. I’ll look it up when we have wifi again.”

They took a moment to decide make a few more final cuts to the script, Ryan arguing that he _had_ done the research but half of it seemed to be missing, as the horizon bloodied—

Shane tipped his head back, eyes closed, sweeping away the dramatics. The shoot had a weird mood, but he forced himself to remain the voice of reason as they walked the grounds, and, once inside, conducted a sore sort of seance in hopes of getting in contact with Rita Gauna; a young girl who went missing in the 60's and, while the body was never found, was rumored to have been killed on the property. Coincidentally, she may have also been pregnant by way of the sheriff’s son. Shane wasn’t sure if it’d be more disrespectful to joke through the session or pretend to like he thought their stupid little show could solve give any closure to her family, the current owners of the property. He made some comments about law enforcement that likely won’t make the final edit.

Ryan seemed to regress to the sort of skittishness Shane almost thought he was drifting away from. His eyes were glassy with terror pretty much the second the investigation started, and everything seemed to draw a reaction out of him. Once, when Shane’s phone buzzed from an incoming text, Ryan had whipped around at him, curling inward despite himself, chanting, “Oh my god, what the fuck— what _was_ that?”

“My phone, Ryan,” Shane said, forcing a laugh. “I was just leaning against something, it’s fine.”

The only thing that seemed to keep him from sprinting off like a spooked racehorse was an exhaustion that seeped in almost as soon as the paranoia.

By the end of even their best, most boring nights, Shane and Ryan attempted to negotiate their way into a more agreeable sleeping situation, even if the argument, in the end, came down to Ryan’s internal struggle for big-boy points. That night, though, he was practically mute as they settled into the house’s main room. They pretty much always have at least one camera rolling, lest a good bit catch them unprepared, but Shane images they’ll be fast-forwarding through most of these hours.

“You know, I think I saw that bottle of Tapatío rattle unprompted back at the restaurant, maybe they’ll let us camp out on their benches instead,” Shane tried. Ryan’s chest swelled in an approximation of a laugh, before he shook his head and fell silent against. TJ made a significant face that most likely meant, _There better be at least_ one _solid scene’s worth of content when we get back._

But he didn’t stick around to enforce anything, driving off into the night with Mark and Devon for a nice, relaxing stay in an actual hotel next to a Cracker Barrel, as they’re wont to do.

“Is it, you know,” Shane hesitated, not sure if he wanted to offer genuine support or jab at Ryan’s alleged sixth sense, still aware of the array of recording equipment strewn around them, and settles lamely on, “… the spooks?”

“I don’t fucking know. I feel—” Ryan starts, then rubs furiously at his face. When the final response came, it was about as honest as the question. “Really fucking tired. Fuck this place.”

Shane more felt the movement than saw it. If the house had seemed dim in the daytime, it practically repulsed light now. There were architectural benefits to desert dwellings that stayed dark and cool, and, Shane told himself, it was good to be reminded a night not masked by the light pollution that seemed to stain all of LA.

“Maybe we should get an ol’ air mattress for our haunted hostels? Hunt in luxury,” Shane commented. Ryan grunted vaguely in a way that sounded like agreement but didn’t follow up. Shane’s usually the one to drift off while Ryan’s run ragged by his own mind, and he’s not quite sure how to fill the dead air. Eventually, he rolled onto his stomach and pulled out his phone. No way will Ryan sleep through the night; Shane can feel the tension radiating off him, the rapid breathing of a nightmare. He can talk into the GoPro on his own time.

Shane didn’t take note when a chill spread through, or when Ryan’s breathing leveled out into a slow, steady rhythm, or when he sat up, slow, testing.

A hand settled firm on the meat between his shoulder and neck. Neither of them were particularly disinclined to the casual touch, but the pressure under Ryan’s fingers made Shane shift in discomfort, trying to shrug him off. “What? What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Ryan said, except it sounded… now, Shane wouldn’t say _too stable,_ but dry, perhaps. Level. Almost coy as a he continued, “I’m doing great. Even better than I expected.”

“Um,” Shane said. His first thought was that this was definitely one of those episodes that would need to be saved in post; it felt banal before it even left his mouth, immaterial, as Ryan started pulling at his sleeping bag’s zipper.

It was, perhaps, a scenario that had flitted through Shane’s mind before. In his head, though, a chill never prickled past his skin and saturated his very bones. They weren’t lying a floor that may or may not be concealing human remains in some form. He pictured coaxing Ryan past the nerves he got whenever confronted with a solid, well thought-out idea, or riding the wave of raw enthusiasm Ryan gave his every impulse. Never could he have imagined them being _silent._

“Um,” Shane repeated as Ryan’s hands pushed past the nylon and flannel to grasp at his sides, “Maybe we should talk about this—”

“I don’t think there’s anything to discuss, actually,” Ryan said, still sounding _so wrong,_ as he straddled Shane’s legs. His thighs were hot, shockingly so, compared to the bite at Shane’s back.

Once, at a family gathering on Lake Michigan, when Shane had been a gangly child, he’d fallen—or was pushed, _Scott—_ over the side of a pier. He’d panicked—again, a child—heard the sounds of his family laughing until, finally, someone calling _Just stand up!_ And he had, because he’d always been a trustful person. The water was still high, but his toes touching slick sand still soothed him, his face just above the water, and Scott had jumped in next to him not long after.

There were no Greek chorus or heroes in eastern New Mexico. There was no one at all for miles in any direction—just Shane and Ryan—so Shane skipped to the second part: just stand up.

Except he didn’t get far. His head rung as it was slammed back down, chin hitting the floor, and, okay, so Ryan’s muscles aren’t just for looks. His weight pushed down the length of Shane’s back, with his forearm pressed against the back of his neck, the pressure increasing as Ryan leaned forward until him and Shane were face to face.

“Listen, this is only going to go a handful of ways, and I don’t mind any of ‘em,” Ryan said, and his eyes were still flat, but he looked— joyous, so wrong but _joyous,_ like this was the most fun he’d had in a long, long time, “It’s all up to you. Are you gonna make this hard for yourself?”

Drowning. Head beneath water. Desperate, futile thrashing. You are, in times when oxygen is scarce, not supposed to panic.

So, as quickly as true terror seized Shane, his mind went about about cutting off pathways, shutting down responses. His body felt limp, numb, distant. Not calm, but nothing. It was perhaps the same mental sweep that convinced him, deeply, that he was not looking into the eyes of one of his best friends, someone he depended on so wholly.

“Smart move,” Ricky said. He scratched his nails deep down Shane’s back, and, distantly, he felt himself shiver.

He wasn’t overly cruel about getting Shane how he wanted him; naked, on his back, at first. He entertained himself with a few more scratches and pinches, but grew bored just as quick. As he edged up, straddling Shane’s face, he pulled out his—Ryan’s—cock. A little short, but thick. Fitting. Ricky didn’t have to tell Shane not to bite, but he did anyway. He fucked into Shane’s mouth slowly, if not quite patiently. Shane could taste the salt of him leaking onto his tongue, heard him groan deep when Shane had to swallow. Once he was in Shane’s throat, it got harder to breathe. Shane choked a few times, despite himself, and once he got that under control, Ricky ground deep, pressing into Shane’s throat. When it didn’t get the response he was looking for, Ricky took one hand from Shane’s hair and brought it down his face until he could pinch Shane’s nose shut.

Shane’s chest ached. He shook. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes as pressure built within him, or a vacuum sucked in. Above him, Ricky smiled.

When he withdrew, Ricky’s dick was wet enough to gleam in the bare light penetrating the room. He took the time to rub at the threads of spit that stuck to Shane’s mouth, gently, condescendingly.

When he reached down for Shane’s still-soft cock, Ricky hummed, tugging on it loosely. “What, am I not showing you a good time?”

Shane stared blankly back until Ricky squeezed, hard enough to prompt some innate thing inside Shane strong enough to force him to say, “Not really my scene.”

And Ricky smiled back, delighted.

He let go of Shane’s cock and flipped him back onto his stomach. Again, Ricky settled his hands onto Shane’s shoulder blades to rip ten pinkening ribbons down his back, his sides. Shane could feel his still-hard dick against the curve of his leg, hot and vital. Ricky’s hands slide lower.

“You have a really flat ass, anyone ever tell you that?” he said, conversationally. “You know, I only get to _really_ come out so often, and this is what I have to work with. I like you, legs, but a man has needs.”

Shane ass was not, evidently enough, so disappointing that Ricky could resist grabbing at it, spreading Shane open, pressing the searing-hot tip of his cock against his hole for several long moments, grinding against it slowly, forcefully, with intent. Somehow, Shane found himself holding his breath.

In the end, Ricky withdrew just long enough to bring Shane’s legs together tight and press into the space left between them, still pressed close, chest-to-back, mouth-to-neck. Still felt like fucking. Shane felt as Ricky’s breath quickened, as his body tensed, as his teeth dug in as warmth shattered between his legs.

Ricky withdrew and rolled to the side, back onto Ryan’s sleeping bag. He slid back everything back into place, and it was almost like he’d never moved at all, except for how he was flushed pink, chest heaving, eyes barely open. He smiled, briefly, before throwing an arm out to hit Shane’s side. “Until next time, big guy.” Then his eyes closed for good. His breathing evened again. Sleeping. Familiar.

Shane carefully, then quickly, bolted.

The house had a bathroom, and although it wasn’t fully functional, Shane still took the opportunity to close behind him and lock it. Symbolically. They’d brought toilet paper with them. He used it. Re-dressed himself. Looked into the grime-covered mirror, because it seemed like a centering thing to do, but found he couldn’t hold his own gaze for long. There was a purpling mark high on his neck, above where his shirt collar could cover.

A second, or an eternity, passed before he heard a high, panicked voice call out. “Shane? _Shane?”_

Shane very badly wanted to stay in that dirty bathroom, possibly forever. Another part of him, the one obsessed with seeing how things play out, exited.

Ryan wasn’t far from where he left him, but was on his knees. He looked lost. Wide-eyed. Sallow as everything else. Shane felt that he could see him so much clearer, now. His mouth opened, but nothing came out for a long moment. “What— what _happened?_ I don’t— remember… _”_

His words came slow, twisted. Easily, they could have been a lie. Rightfully, Shane could have taken the keys and left him there. Ryan probably wouldn’t have even fought him over it.

Instead, Shane said, “We’re leaving.”

They packed everything in silence, haphazardly shoving things into the back seat and trunk of the rental. Shane slid into the driver’s seat. Ryan pressed himself against the passenger side door. He had one of the cameras, and his laptop. Shane ignored this. He started the car.

It had been maybe fifteen minutes when Ryan said, “Shane. It’s gone. Everything’s gone. The files—they’re all corrupted. I can’t _remember.”_

Shane had worked on enough filming sets to know how easy it was to fuck things up; a bad card, the wrong setting, shit luck. He glanced at Ryan. His eyes, streaks down his face, reflected glossy whiteness from the moon. It’d been full that night. Shane knew that even once the numbness wore off and feelings snuck back in—they always did—that there would be a lot of things from that night that he won’t be able to forget, crystallized in truth. The devastation there, painted on Ryan’s face, would be one of them. This wasn’t supposed to be their demon episode of the season. Hell, there were doubts it’d even meet Ryan’s definition of haunted. He hadn’t brought his holy water bottles, and he wasn’t faithfully religious enough to casually carry much else with him.

He said nothing. It occurred to Shane that, figuratively and literally, he was steering this boat. Ryan would go where he pointed him, listen to what he told him, let him say whatever else to anyone else.

A crack opened, just enough for Shane to laugh. They’d argued this before, after all; hospital, or priest?

**Author's Note:**

> When spending the night on-location, Ryan gets possessed by Ricky Goldsworth. Ricky rapes Shane, who dissociates a bit. There is some narrative wiggle room as to whether Ricky is an actual demon or, well, dark!Ryan. Whichever suites your id.


End file.
